A Death in The Family
by nightwing1511
Summary: As Batman falls further and further from the light, a new hero steps up to fight for Gotham's future, and a wandering son returns home.
1. Prologue

A/n:

The title, A Death in The Family, is not an indicator that this is a rehashing of the infamous story arc which culminated with the death of Jason Todd, the second Robin. It is a homage, a reference.

Unhappy with the universe-wide reboot known as 'The New 52', and the direction it has taken a number of my favourite characters, I have taken the plunge into the world of Fan Fiction. I've always thought that the most interesting facet of Batman is his team of partners, so that is where my focus will be. This is my first time publishing a work like this, so any feedback and criticism is appreciated.

This is the first in a planned series, in which plan to retell the history of the Bat-family. Some aspects of this series will be based somewhat heavily on stories from the comics, but I will be adding my own spin on as much as I can, whilst still retaining the heart and themes of the events.

Based on Characters appearing in DC Comics

Dick Grayson/Robin/Nightwing created by Bob Kane, Bill Finger and Jerry Robinson  
With special thanks to Devin Grayson  
Barbara Gordon/Batgirl/Oracle created by Gardner Fox and Carmine Infantino  
With special thanks to Gail Simone  
Tim Drake/Robin created by Marv Wolfman and Pat Broderick  
Bruce Wayne/Batman created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger  
With special thanks to Grant Morrison and Scott Snyder

* * *

Prologue

The sky burned orange. With sunset hours past, and dawn twice as far away, windows citywide were filled with faces trying to spot the source of the light. A thick, noxious cloud of grey-green smoke poured skyward as a cluster of warehouses were engulfed by flames burning orange, and green, and blue.

Police and fire rescue dared not approach the inferno, staying out of range of the flames, fumes, and desperate gunfire of the survivors. Those caged by the collapsing structure, keen to take as many as they could with them, raked the streets below with vollies of gunfire. Those that fled ran right into the hands of the waiting police, and half as many again tried their luck in the bitter winter waters of the harbour.

Far off, she imagined, in the centre of the chaos, a shrill, sickening laugh rattled into the sky, all but muted by the raging fire, crumbling buildings and terrible deluge of screams.

From a roof nearby she watched, standing into the wind. Disasters like this were a perfect cover; for once she didn't have to hide. Everyone was watching the fire, not looking for capes on the roof. From the street they'd barely see her anyway: nothing but a billowing piece of black fabric painted orange by the glow of burning buildings, and a tangle of scorching orange hair. She held the cape high on her face, shielding it from the heat and smoke, and disappeared from sight.

But she saw them. She counted near a dozen flagged as his lieutenants running for their lives, her honed senses augmented by the infrared and tracking program built into her mask's heads-up-display. But not Him. He was still in there, alive. She could feel it.

A voice filled her ear. Not the usual harsh growl of her mentor over the radio; instead this was warm, friendly, fatherly. 'He's not responding. No reply on emergency frequency. You're up.' Alfred Pennyworth: home base and the rock the family was built on.

'Copy that, cave.' She let her left hand drop to her belt, quickly finding the miniature, gas-powered grappling gun. She briefly aimed and squeezed the trigger, sending a cable of nano-fibre in an arc toward the burning mess of warehouses. It struck home and snapped tight. She squeezed again and another harpoon buried itself in the wall behind her. 'I'm coming, Boss,' she said across the silent emergency frequency, hoping he was still alive to hear.

Barbara Gordon, Batgirl, stepped forward off the edge of the building, zipping down the line at a stomach churning pace, into fire and death.

….

Three stairs.

Spring with right foot.

Tuck.

Roll on landing.

Grapple high right, swing around corner.

Line of sight broken.

Gunfire neutralised.

He took a breath and ran. Submachine gun fire raked the wall behind him, but he was too fast. Three stairs to the ledge and he sprung high into the smoke-filled air. The next building was two floors shorter; he cleared the distance with ease. He pulled his knees to his chest, presenting a smaller target as a dozen angry mobsters tried to fill him with holes.

He landed softly, letting his momentum carry him into a forward roll, the leather-kevlar-nomex weave of his suit protecting him from the long range pot-shots that glanced off his body. He came up line-launcher already in hand and fired a grapple across the road. It buried itself into the neighbouring skyscraper.

He jumped and retracted the line a yard or so, allowing him to keep his feet clear of the roof top until he cleared the building. Bullets smacked the concrete around him as he sailed a quick loop around the construction and out of sight. Standing on a window ledge, he retracted the line and fired another to the top of the skyscraper. Hooking onto the retract motor on his belt, he flew.

Dick Grayson, Nightwing, perched quietly between two gargoyles and watched with a smile as the man presumably in charge screamed a wave of abuse at his subordinates.

Now, the hunt begins.

….

Barbara blinked away tears as the smoke burned her eyes. She'd started using a breather almost as soon as she'd entered the building, but the heat still made it hard to inhale. A door to her left flew open, and a man ran into the hallway, gun raised. Barbara spun into him, lifting the gun from his hands and pulling the clip out in a single, flowing motion. She spun again, landing a savage kick to the man's torso. The man collapsed in a heap, slumped against the wall. Normally, leaving him there would have troubled her. This time, though, she didn't have time; she didn't care. Anybody who sided with the maniac at the heart of this inferno was as much a monster as He was. They were just as responsible for Jason.

Her cowl's HUD beeped, highlighting a door not too far down the hall. A utility room. Barbara hit the door running, and the service elevator to the rear of the room lit up on her display. A 3D map of the building assembled quickly, a marker showing Bruce's tracker highlighting his position on the third floor almost directly above her. Batgirl's muscles screamed as she forced the elevator doors open. A wall of heat hit the young woman, her lungs objecting as she fired a grapple up into the shaft and swung inside. The line retracted and she whirred upwards. She let the line go and heaved herself through the damaged, agape doors to the third floor, dense smoke hampering her progress. She squinted through the haze, her HUD scanning uselessly.

She spotted the mass of black kevlar. His armour was torn and broken, cape in tatters, but he was unmistakable. The handle of a knife protruded from his left thigh. He was breathing, but unconscious. Something deep in the building exploded and flames shot up, consuming the small office across the hall.

Not a lot of time.

'Jeez Boss, I hope you left the Car nearby.'

….

Perched across from the mook, Dick smiled and brushed a wayward strand of long, dark hair from his face. His heads-up-display clicked over to show one less threat; he'd marked the group before they'd broken up. The satellites that Bruce and Barbara used still synced to his mask's HUD. He had suspicions that Babs left the encryption keys unchanged on purpose.

The suspended body in front of him still registered a pulse. Even since his partnership with Batman ended, some rules were still sacred.

If we kill, we're as bad as them. If we maim, we become the monsters we fight.

Bruce had taught that from the beginning, when Dick was still hungry for revenge. When angry, he could still hear Bruce in the back of his mind. Dick had come close, but never broken their code. In his quiet moment he was proud of himself for never crossing that line.

The men had made their way down the stairs by now, searching for him from the alleys. They hadn't yet noticed their missing comrade. They were too concerned with trying to find and kill him. All he'd done was try to keep them distracted so they'd stop shooting at the police. Some people took things too personally.

Line of sight limited.

Close quarters; isolation.

Dick peaked over the ledge to the alley below. They'd each gone off on their own. Too easy. The heat signatures of the remaining gangsters smudged around his view. Nightwing leapt forward, muscles tensing, adrenaline coursing; eager to find his next prey.

….

Alfred Pennyworth looked up from the computer as headlights flooded the cave. "The Car" as they called it more closely resembled a tank. The chassis was at one stage some German high performance SUV, but between them, Bruce and Alfred had put in over one hundred hours of mods and upgrades. The leviathan housed a rocket thruster in the rear end, and was swamped in so much armour it looked like something off the sci-fi channel.

Engine roaring, the black-armoured beast rolled gracefully down the ramp, secluding itself in the darkness of their cave sanctum. As it slowed to a halt, Alfred let out a sigh of relief; both Barbara and Master Bruce had been out of contact for hours. The V12-jet engine hybrid shuddered to a stop and the cockpit canopy slid forward, servos whirring as the pilot and passenger doors popped open.

Batgirl stepped out from the driver's seat. The turntable finished its lazy 180 degree rotation, facing the car toward the tunnel it had come in through. 'He's passed out in the passenger seat. I can't move him. He's stable, but he's been stabbed.'

'Did you catch the fiend?'

'The Joker? No, he slipped away. Bruce was exhausted, he needs time to recuperate.'

'I've suggested a respite, Miss Barbara, but his stubbornness wins out every time.' Master Bruce had been well off his game lately, and despite Barbara and Alfred's best efforts, he continued to patrol each night.

Barbara slipped her cape and cowl off and slumped into a chair by the computer. She looked exhausted too, and her cheeks were flushed the same colour as her hair. 'I think I wore him out. He kept easing up, until I'd mention Jason. Suddenly he'd fire up, and keep going. He blames himself.'

'It's his nature.'

'His nature is gonna get him killed.' Barbara watched, too sore to move, as Alfred dragged six feet and nearly 250 pounds of muscle, armour and stubbornness out of the car. For an older man, Alfred was in great shape. He certainly looked his age tonight, his pencil moustache and thinning hair amplified by the sunken bags under his eyes. He looked tired.  
Her eyes drifted around the cave as she let her body relax, sinking into the plump leather chair. Feeling like she never wanted to stand up again, she spun the chair to face the computer monitor, and started flicking through news coverage of the warehouse siege. It was pretty common knowledge that The Joker had owned the buildings that burned, but true to form, she and Bruce had gone unnoticed. Bruce said that it was important to act from the shadows. Fame would be bad for them. Very few people knew about the activities of "The Batman" and his team. Nearly half of them were in the cave at that moment.

Her father, the police captain in charge of the organized crime takedown task force, had some idea. He didn't know that she was involved, though. He'd never let her out after dark again if he had known.

Dick knew who they were, but he'd been part of it for longer than she had. Robin, he'd called himself. Barbara stared towards the glass display where Dick's armour hung, a tribute to the son who left the nest. Bruce hated it being there, but Barbara knew he'd never convince Alfred to take it down. Next to it was another set of armour, torn and broken, resting above a podium that simply read "A Good Soldier".

With a sigh, Barbara heaved herself out of the chair, and headed to the showers. It had been a long night, and she was craving a good hot cup of tea paired with a few hours of trashy TV soaps.

….

The window he'd left open; there was no point locking it. On the 23rd floor nobody would get in that wouldn't find it easier to kick the door in. Even then, there was nothing in this apartment worth stealing. Dick liked spartan living.

"How can we fight for these people if we live in a different world?" He'd half asked, half argued with Bruce when he bought the unit. The apartment was fairly central, only a block from Main Street in Burnley. The ground floor of the building was a great little delicatessen run by an old woman Dick did odd jobs for.

What else could I need?

He crouched through the window and stepped softly into the living room. Stripping out of his armour quickly, he opened the catch inside his wardrobe. A rack slid out, covered in armour, shurikens, grapple guns, spare masks, and various gadgets he hadn't yet figured out. He quickly rearranged his gear onto the rack, and pressed it back into the wall. He heard a thrum as the steam jets inside the compartment cleaned his suit.

He pulled on a pair of shorts that he found on the floor, sprung himself onto the sofa and turned on the TV. As the cartoon cat chased the bird around the living room, Dick retrieved a box of frosty flakes from the floor, and smiled as he shoved handfuls into his mouth.

He loved this cartoon. Life was good.

….

Barbara emerged from behind a cloud of steam, wrapped in a yellow dressing gown, and her hair wrapped up in a towel of its own, and arranged in a small tower atop her head. Jim stirred his coffee gently as she slipped into her bedroom. He'd been out all night with the warehouse siege, but was still expected to show up to work today. From the looks of the bags under her eyes, Barbara had been up all night waiting for him. She always worried when he didn't come home on time.

She re-emerged, hair a tousled mess, having discarded the towel in favour of bright purple, fuzzy slippers. A PhD in literature, and another on the way, but she had been so pleased with the fuzzy slippers he bought her. Secretly, Jim hoped she'd never grow up, not really anyway.

'Did I miss much?'

'The rich guy, with the cancer, he's cheating on his wife too now. With her sister, I think.'

'Oh my god!' Barbara gasped in mock horror. Daytime soaps were her choice of entertainment. Jim watched them with her often enough, he could almost follow what was going on.

The doorbell rang, and Barbara stood to get it.

'It's early for visitors, isn't it?' Jim wondered aloud, as she opened the door.

The colour drained from her face. The lazy smile now turely horrified.

'The Batman says hello!'

The voice was cracked, deranged. Jim heard the shot, but didn't believe it.

Barbara fell backwards as he dove for cover behind the couch. He pulled his gun belt from his desk, and chambered a round. Shots, semi-automatic, peppered the room. Jim rose when they paused, plugging one of the three gunmen in the chest. He glanced at Barb, his little girl, lying sprawled on the floor, blood soaking through her bathrobe. He ducked, but too slow this time, a round clipped his right shoulder, sending him crashing down, gun skittering away. The Joker laughed a shrill laugh, as he approached Gordon. He picked up Jim's gun, with a gloved hand.

'C'mon Jimbo, you can do better than that. Here, met me help.'

He turned and fired a round into the head of his remaining partner.

'There, much better.'

'What do you want?' Gordon spluttered.

The clown didn't reply. He just smiled his deranged smile as he sunk two slugs into Gordon's stomach, dropped the gun, and made for the door. Jim could hear Barbara sobbing, but couldn't move to her. He knew he was going into shock. Pain burned through every inch of his body. He could hear the Joker cackling as the door slammed shut, but he couldn't stop him.

There was nothing he could do but wait.

Nothing.


	2. Chapter 1

**'Straighten up. **Keep off my radar. That shouldn't be too hard, right, Tim.'

'Of course, sir.'

Principal Pollack leant forward in his seat, resting his folded arms on the desk. 'Then I think we're done. If you don't mind, Tim, I have some paperwork to go over with your parents.'

Tim ran his hand back through his short, black hair and made his way out of the office. He closed the door and leant against it.

'Mr Drake was it? Someone from the student rep committee will be here soon to show you around.' Curiously, the secretary spoke without looking up or even slowing down her keystrokes. That was impressive.

'He's a good kid. He's just... distracted.' His father's voice was muffled through the door, but discernable.

'I understand, Jack. Young men sometimes have trouble focusing, or prioritising. But honestly, Tim is going to be on thin ice here. Given his record, if he doesn't pull himself together-'

'Hi, I'm Stephanie.' He'd missed her approach, but there was no missing her now. The smiling face, framed by bright blonde hair, was perhaps a little too close to his own for Tim's liking. Her eyes were a similar shade of green as his.

_Weird._

'Welcome to Burnley High! They've asked me to show you around.'

Her voice was perky and loud. Like a hamster on coffee. He'd have found her attractive if not for that.

He followed her, not really paying attention as she vomited information about the debate team and the volleyball squad. She was tall, for a girl. And her hair looked somehow nicer than normal hair. Puffier, or something. Tim shook his head, and wondered how much long it would be until they reached the classroom.

The tour was pointless. He knew his way around, even before he set foot on the grounds. There was a map in the student diary they'd mailed out, and his near-eidetic memory recalled it in perfect detail.

She'd stopped walking, and was staring at him, as if expecting an answer.

_Damn, forgot to listen._

'Sorry, didn't catch that last bit.'

'I said, don't you think it's important to make friends?'

'Oh, yeah. Friends.' He took a breath, and coughed loudly. 'Look Stephanie, I appreciate you showing me around like this, but I think I've got it from here.'

'No, that's ok. I'm in your class, so we're heading in the same way anyway.' Her hair seemed to shine more when she smiled.

_Magic hair? Get a hold of yourself, Drake._

'Ok. Thanks, I guess.'

* * *

The day dragged on, and Tim waited impatiently for the final bell. Stephanie had made it her mission to make sure he made it safely to each class. He spent the final period staring at the clock, whilst his math teacher lectured on some principle that nobody was listening to. The bell went, and the classroom emptied. Tim followed the crowd outside, where a line of school-busses began to fill.

Tim walked away from the busses, around the corner.

A black, Chrysler sedan was waiting for him, and a stranger sat at the wheel. A man with short dark hair, and dark sunglasses, wearing a black suit. One of his Mother's assistants, he guessed.

_Great. It looks like I'm being driven home by the secret service._

'Your mom asked me to take you home today, kiddo.'

He dropped into the back seat and silently pondered his parents' absence as his mother's crony drove to their house on the outskirts of town.

The Drake Estate was a two storey family home nestled among the mansions and three-car-garage mini-mansions on the mainland side of the Gotham River. Known as the Palisades, the swanky, low density residential area was home to millionaires, captains of industry, and high-end public servants with no time to spend their money on anything but extravagant houses and expensive cars. At the centre, and covering almost as much ground as the rest of the properties together, Wayne Manor rested majestically at the top of the hill. When the original city began to spring up, the upper class settled on the hill across the river. The Palisades quickly became a fashionable area for the rich and famous to live in.

The Drakes had moved there from Metropolis after Jack, Tim's father, inherited the house from his father. The house had been old when they first moved in; Tim remembered the squeaky floorboards and boarded windows. On his visits home he saw the house slowly renovated. Tim had gone to school at the prestigious Brentwood Academy, a private boarding school on the west side of the Gotham River. He lived in the dorms during the week, but went home on weekends. Each week he saw a new room of the mansion stripped out and rebuilt.

The lavish home was uncommonly quiet as Tim entered the foyer and dropped his school bag by the door to his study. He followed his stomach to the kitchen, and made a quick sandwich. As he chewed into the piece of turkey wrapped in wholegrain bread, he spotted a scrawled note on the table.

"Tim,  
Going out of town for a few days.  
Will call soon.  
Love you,  
Mom and Dad."

Tim's frowned as he read the message. It was definitely his mother's handwriting, but it wasn't her voice in the note. Something was off wrong. He took the note and pinned it to his already crowded corkboard. He'd have to mull it over, but if he was right, he needed help. He needed to find Him soon.

* * *

The light was bright in his face. A drip of drool from his chin dribbled onto his chest. Around him, his classmates were all staring.

'You've decided to join us, Mr Drake?'

'Uh, I was um… just resting my eyes?'

'And snoring.'

The classroom laughed. Tim yawned.

'Now that your eyes are rested, perhaps you can tell us all about Kepler's laws of planetary motion. I mean, seeing how you've clearly got better things to do than listen to me.'

She looked pointedly at his notebook, and the squiggled drawings of circus acrobats with capes.

'Sorry, Miss Bertinelli, I had a paper due first period this morning. I didn't sleep much.'

The tall, slender lady in front of him stepped back.

'Now remember to read chapter 12, thanks folks. I'll see you all tomorrow. Class dismissed. Tim, a word?'

_Great._

The classroom emptied quickly. Tim kept his seat. When the classroom was empty, she perched herself on the desk in front of him. She was young, for a teacher. Probably her first gig out of college. And from the look of her outfit, he guessed it wasn't her only job. She was probably moonlighting as a bartender in the city. There was no way she could afford designer shoes of that quality on a teacher's salary.

'Tim, I don't know what to do. I mean, you've only been here, what, two weeks, but you're late to every class, when you show up at all. And then you sleep through the lecture anyway. I don't know how they ran classes at Brentwood, but here we like you to be at least conscious.'

'I already said, Miss, I had a late night.'

'Yes, but it seems like you're having a lot of those. Is everything alright at home?'

Tim stood up.

'The orbit of every planet is an ellipse with the Sun at one of the two foci.

A line joining a planet and the Sun sweeps out equal areas during equal intervals of time.' He smirked, grabbed his bag and headed for the door.

'Tim that's not th-'

He let the door snap shut behind him. He slipped on his silver, mirrored sunglasses as he shouldered his backpack. He didn't have time for her amateur psychology. She couldn't help. Nobody here could.

The afternoon was hot and humid, and Tim could feel the afternoon storm coming, even from inside the halls of Burnley High School. The bell rang, and the halls filled with babbling and shoving. Tim made a quick beeline for the nearest door. The summer sun was harsh, and the thick, black clouds were working their way slowly across the sky. He waved down a cab and scooted into the back seat.

'Tim!' The call came just before he closed the door. A scrawny redhead, was skittering across the carpark towards him. Ives had been Tim's friend since the boys had been in elementary school.

'Heading home Tim? Wanna split the cab?'

'Sorry Ives, gotta meet Dad in the city. Hey, I'll see you tomorrow?'

'A'ight Timbo. Don't forget we've got that history quiz second period tomorrow.'

'Yeah, thanks. Catch ya!'

He pulled the door shut. When Tim had been at Brentwood, Ives had been a near perfect student. But without Tim, it seemed his focus had shifted. He never talked about what, but something had happened, and Ives had been kicked out of the illustrious school. Tim never asked too many questions; he was glad to see a friendly face at Burnley High.

'Drake Estate, in the Palisades.'

The cabby nodded, and pulled out. Tim pulled his cellphone from his pocket, and flicked through news articles as the cab wove through Gotham.

* * *

'Just drop me at the gate, buddy. No need to drive up to the house.'

The cab pulled to a stop on the white gravel. Tim paid the driver and pulled himself out of the car. The rain started to spit as Tim made his way up the drive. He ducked into the foyer just as the downpour struck. The door wasn't locked. It never was anymore. Tim dropped his bag as he walked into his study. He pulled up the chair to his computer and slumped himself into it. There were no new videos or news on the sites he frequented. Nothing on the news, and no new police reports. He lent back in his chair and stared up at the mess of photos, news clippings and scribbles on paper pinned to a corkboard.

"Bat Watch", they called themselves. A group of anonymous internet users who made it their hobby to follow The Batman, and post poor quality videos, blurry photos, and wild speculation at every opportunity. Tim had contributed a few photos, but nothing good. He kept the best ones for his own files.

Gotham was full of skeptics, and despite a handful of confirmed sightings, some photos, and even police reports, most didn't buy into the stories about a caped vigilante who prowls the rooftops, protecting citizens from muggers and murderers. Tim had seen him in action, though. Batman, who most stories painted as an 8 foot tall, monster with wings and fangs, was merely a man in a mask and cape. What few people knew was that Batman wasn't alone. A small number of Bat-enthusiasts had theorised that Batman couldn't do all the work he did without help, but that was as far as they went. Tim, however, knew that The Batman had three allies. Well, until last year, anyway. Two had been killed in the gang war that had nearly consumed the city last year. He'd shared this theory with a few people, but they'd laughed him off. How could one person keep that sort of a night job a secret, let alone four.

But Tim was sure.

One of them was definitely a woman and the other two were much younger than The Bat. He had scoured every image, every video, and spied on way too many police radio conversations.

The first partner had worn a red tunic, green armour, with a yellow cape. Not exactly urban camouflage. Some eyewitnesses had heard The Bat call him "Robin", and the way he moved it was no surprise. He must have had some pretty amazing training to fly the way he did. Probably a gymnast.

Later, the woman had made appearances, her colour palate was set in blues and purple, distinguishing her from The Batman's black. She was slender, too, and tall. She moved like a gymnast too, and a good one at that. Tim had played with some pretty serious sound editing software to clean up a recording, and heard Robin referred to her as "Batgirl".

Two years ago, Robin had started wearing black and blue. He started going by "Nightwing" and stopped working with Batman. But then Batman took a new sidekick, but this Robin wore darker green, and a black cape. He was a lot more aggressive than the others, and less acrobatic. He hadn't lasted long. After the Joker went to war with the GCPD, Batgirl and Robin had disappeared. At first Tim had thought they had just been less conspicuous, but after over six months, he was starting to have his doubts. Combined with Nightwing relocating to Blüdhaven, and Batman becoming more violent and uncontrolled, he was almost certain that the junior vigilantes had been killed.

Tim stood up from his desk, and sat on the floor. He watched the news on the TV across the room as he did crunches, then push ups.

_Gotta stay in shape._

He was an accomplished hacker and a skilled programmer, had studied taekwondo, jujitsu and hapkido and taught himself to throw shurikens with brutal efficiency. When he should have been doing homework for school, he had instead studied forensic principles, chemical and fingerprint analysis and ballistics. Once he cracked the Batman's identity, he would join his crusade.

A new team was what he needed. Without his partners, Batman had started taking more risks, and seemed to be pushing himself that much harder. Before the Joker, Batman had been untouchable. Lately he was taking a beating each night, whilst dealing out his own beatings to any criminals or gangs he encountered. He was burning himself out.

The news blathered on about things Tim couldn't pay attention to. He finished his workout, and sat back at his desk. A notification was waiting, one of his Bat Watch forums.

"_New Video – Batman in Blüdhaven_"

_Idiots. Clearly not Batman, there's no cape._

He watched as a shadowy figure engaged a trio in an alley. The footage was shot from a cell, so the quality was appalling.

Tim clicked reply.

"_It's not Batman. Batman wears a cape._"

His mouse hovered over the post button as he watched the video again. Nightwing dodged the gunfire of one bad guy with a cartwheel, and disabled another with a kick. He sprung off a derelict car and caught the fire escape above him. He swung back, and flung himself into the air, pulling a perfect triple tuck, finishing with a kick square to the final gunman's chest. He fired some sort of grappling hook into the air, and was gone. The whole video was only 23 seconds long, but it was enough.

Tim held the backspace key, deleting his message.

He didn't need to post anything. He'd solved it.

He knew who Batman was.


	3. Chapter 2

**Barbara Gordon tapped the keyboard.** Four huge screens in front of her jumped to life, bathing her in white light. Around her the deep expanse of the cave loomed. She nudged her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. Across the monitors, information danced; news reports, police calls, even weather reports. An even larger screen to her left blinked to life, displaying a number of case files marked 'pending'. Everything they might need.

'Oh, Alfred. I love what you've done with the place.' Barbara sighed contentedly as she wheeled around to face him. The old man smiled.

'It's about time really. I was starting to wonder if I'd ever have dry feet again. Master Bruce hasn't said much, but I suspect he likes he walkways too.'

Bruce never said much anymore. Not since Jason. And not since...

He'd told her it would be too dangerous, but she'd survived the warehouses with only a few cuts and bruises. It was her home where the danger really lurked...

Barbara shook the memory away. That was her old life. She was starting new. New house. New job. And yet she was back in the cave.

She navigated her wheelchair away from the computer bank, and steadily made her way across the path to the armoury. Once a series of concrete paths and stairs decades old and prone to flooding, Alfred had rebuilt the walkways in raised steel, complete with safety rails, lights and ramps instead of stairs. Some things remained the same. Bruce's mismatched collection of trophies and mementos were still scattered about; the glass case memorialising Jason's armour stood proudly in the darkness. The computer bank was new, replacing the single machine that resided there six months ago. The pin boards, blackboards and desks covered with file after file were gone, replaced with magnetic whiteboards, and a huge server rack crammed full of drives. The centre of the cave finally looked like the lair of a tech-genius vigilante. It had spent a decade too long looking like the base of operations from a 1970's cop show.

Three paths jutted out from the central platform. The shortest, jutting across a chasm to the right, opened up to the armory. An armour rack held open sets of armour that once belonged to Dick, red breasted with a proud 'R'. Barbara's own sets of armour, blues, greys and purples, emblazoned with golden bat silhouettes, hung next to Bruce's battle gear. This platform was the largest in the cave, and also shot off into a small, well equipped med bay, a target range, gym, and sparring dojo.

Another catwalk snaked down, underneath the computer. This space was filled with workbenches and tools, prototypes of new gadgets hung from the walls and filled the shelves. A single touch screen was suspended above the centre bench, currently showing a section of blueprint, left over from the last time it had been used. A walkway spurred away to an elevator, leading to the mansion above.

A set of stairs led down from the computer bank to the staging area for "The Car". A stretch of tarmac reached out towards one opening of the cave, disappearing through the waterfall that concealed the mouth. The Car wasn't on the turntable now, it almost never was lately. Bruce spent every hour between sundown and sunrise hunting. In the old days, they'd called it "patrolling", but since Jason's death, The Batman wasn't keeping protective watch over the innocent of Gotham, he was hunting the scum and villainy and punishing them with extreme prejudice.

Barbara traced a lazy finger along a grappling gun mounted on the wall. She and Bruce had developed so many of their tools and gadgets together. They'd been a family once. Bruce, Dick, and Alfred had been as close to her as her parents.

But like her real family, everything had fallen apart. Her father's affair with another police detective had driven her mother and brother away, back to Chicago. Barbara had said she'd stayed because of school, but the truth was she had been closer to Jim. And besides, he needed her. His long, irregular shifts as a homicide detective meant without her to look after him, he'd probably live on bran flakes and two minute noodles.

When Bruce and Dick had their final argument, again she stayed where she was most needed. Bruce, she'd reasoned, required allies to aide in his crusade. What Dick needed was time alone. He'd told her so and yet still took offence to her staying with Bruce. If they were the sort of people who talked about their feelings, maybe things would have been different.

Barbara wheeled around to face Alfred once more. He was busying himself adjusting one of the grapples. He really was a jack of all trades. In addition to being Bruce's valet, and valet to Dr Thomas Wayne before him, Alfred was a fantastic cook and an accomplished engineer. An ex-army doctor, he also doubled as The Batman's medic, and in the old days, coordinated the team from the cave.

'Thanks again for breakfast. It's good to be back.'

'You're very welcome,' he replied, remaining as British as possible through the warm, heartfelt smile, 'Shall I walk you out? Your taxi should be arriving soon.'

'It's alright, Alfred, you're busy. I'll see you tonight.' With a wave, she turned and headed to the lift.

Emerging from behind the clock in Bruce's study, Barbara blinked at the morning light flooding in. It was a crisp summer morning, and the day ahead looked promising. She navigated the halls of the sprawling mansion, making her way through the front door as the cab Alfred had summoned pulled up in the drive.

* * *

The city of Gotham was made up of three main islands of about equal size. The north-most, Burnley, was the site of a huge residential development; apartment buildings were slowly expanding to cover the island. These were, for the most part, built right over the top of the old commercial districts that made up the site of the original city. The northern shore of the island was dotted with docks and warehouses.

Across the bridge to the centre island, the Mid-Town CBD was an odd mixture of old and new, and was seemingly under constant redevelopment. The cityscape ranged from small office blocks to large skyscrapers in the centre of town. At the very centre, Wayne Tower stood as a monument to the family that had saved the city in the great depression.

The south island, known as downtown, or New Gotham, was essentially one huge construction site. Huge skyscrapers at varying stages of completion peppered the skyline.

Gotham University, nestled near the centre of the Mid-Town CBD, was one of the city's oldest buildings. Built in the early twenties, it had survived the numerous fires, floods and other disasters that seemed to plague the ever changing metropolis. Across the street from Gotham's Central Park, the University was in truth made up of four buildings of varied ages, with a small park in the middle, but the main building was the one people paid attention to.

Barbara stared out the window of the third floor lecture hall, as her students drizzled out. History of Literature mustn't have been a favourite topic; they looked like zombies. As one last young woman brushed through the door, Barbara let out a sigh. She gathered up her things, and was midway through the game of tetris that was her handbag when a man in a sweater-vest appeared in the doorway. Wade Brixton was about six feet tall, with tussled hair and thin, square-rimmed glasses, and a take away coffee in each hand.

'You look like you need this.' He grinned, handing her the steaming travel cup.

'I'll bet.' She sipped the coffee and smiled.

'We still on for lunch, Barb?'

'I'm starving. Where should we eat?'

* * *

The afternoon sun cast beautiful shadows across the city's gothic skyline. Barbara sipped her latte and smiled. Lunch had been a hit, and had turned into lunch and gelato. It was now at lunch and gelato and coffee.

'I think Drake would be good for the city. She's got a whole beautification plan I think would do some good around here.' Wade pushed his glasses up with a lazy hand.

'Yeah, and I don't trust Sionis. He seems… sleazy.'

'I don't know that he's that bad, Barb. I mean, the man's a businessman. I think they have to be a bit sleazy, right?'

'I guess.' _Bruce never struck me as sleazy._ 'Probably is time for a new mayor. He's done his term, and hasn't done anything spectacular.'

'Well, I suppose we shouldn't be surprised. That cosmetics firm he inherited has never done very well.'

A harsh tone suddenly exploded from Wade's cellphone. He stood up and slipped it into his pocket. 'Sorry Babs, I gotta dash. Got a class. Where did the afternoon go?'

'Yes, go. Pass on your wisdom to a captive audience fascinated by…'

'Dickens.'

'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.'

'I'll call you, later.'

'I might answer.' Barbara winked and waved as he walked away. She leant back in her chair and soaked in the delicious sunlight.

On her first day at the University, Wade had made sure she knew her way around. They'd had fairly regular lunch dates in the weeks since. She'd been thankful for him; it was nice to have a friend her own age. Her high school life had been very disjointed. Graduating at 15 hadn't left much time for friends. In the old days, she'd had Dick. But these days, she wasn't even sure he'd answer if she called him. Wade had made returning to the real world that much smoother. He was a nice guy. Smart, too. Very well read. And good looking, in a dorky way.

Barbara looked at her watch. It was almost time for her to get to her own class. She only had one more to get through for the day. She drained what was left of her coffee, picked up her bag and headed back to work.

* * *

Barbara wheeled slowly into the lift and pushed the button for the 14th floor. After the accident Bruce had offered that she come to live at the mansion, but living all the way out of the city would have been near impossible for her. She and her dad been touch and go after the shooting. Her dad got lucky; the bullets managed to miss everything important.

She hadn't been so fortunate. A slug had damaged her spine, totally paralysing her from the waist down. When she'd been released from the hospital, and resolved to move into a place of her own, Bruce had helped set her up with a modest apartment near the centre of town. Jim had hated the idea, and argued long and hard that she should stay where he could look after her. She loved him, but in that moment, she'd wanted to slap him. She'd faced off against some of the most notorious criminals Gotham had ever seen, and he wanted to look after her?

The apartment was second floor from the top, but the space above her was vacant, maintenance access for the huge clock on the top of the building. The old clock tower had been a feature of Mid-town's West Side since the city's boom in the 50's. Within convenient walking distance to everything she could need, Barbara would have been hard up finding a better place.

She rolled into the kitchen and fixed a cup of tea and settled herself on the couch. It'd been a long day, but it was good to be back to a normal life. Well, mostly normal.

As the evening stretched on, and the cheesy soaps gave way for gritty detective shows, Barbara yawned and dropped her mug in the sink. She pulled on a jacket, and headed to the lift. She looked around as the doors slid closed, and finally spotted it. A small dot under the panel of buttons. She reached down and waved her keys in front of the dot. A micro-sensor in the lift caught the presence of the chip built into her key ring.

The lift moved up slowly, silently. The doors opened, and Barbara stared into a darkened room. The glass face of the giant clock let in the moonlight, but the whole room was shadowed. She wheeled forward carefully, waiting for the motion sensors to spot her. Lights popped to life, and a computer bank identical to the one in the Cave hummed to life. Almost identical; this one had an espresso machine set next to the left hand monitor.

_Alfred always remembers the important things._

The room was huge, and behind the main computer bank, a series of screens set into a tabletop glowed patiently, and an armoury reached off beyond to the left. To the right, a door opened into a gym.

_A home away from home?_

She took her spot in front of the computer bank, set the waiting headset to her ear, and took a deep breath.

'Welcome, Oracle.' The computer chimed in haunting, computerised tones adapted from Barbara's own voice.

A myriad of files and windows splayed across the screens.

'Good to have you back.' A gravelled voice whispered across the speaker. 'And just in time. I need you to run a search on a Lester Petrovic, and all known associates. And fast, he's a person of interest in a murder investigation.'

'Good to be back, boss. Database is searching.' Her fingers danced across the keys, and the search pinged. 'You're in luck. Petrovic was ticketed this evening for speeding. He's in Midtown. File says he's a regular at My Alibi.'

'I hate that bar. I'll head over now. Keep poring over those files. Alfred, are you on channel?'

'Sir?' The old butler's voice was rather alert for this late in the evening. Did he ever sleep?

'I want you to look into the victim, Miguel Pérez. When I'm finished with Petrovic, I'm going to need to know them better than family.' He was breathing heavily. Already on the move.

'Quite so, sir.'

'Gotcha, boss.'

She went to work.


	4. Chapter 3

**'Grayson and Flores, cover the south door!'**

'Yessir!'

The two officers broke off from the rest of the group, jogging down the alley to the left. As they approached, Dick slowed and bought his sidearm up, trained on the door. His partner, Detective Catalina Flores, ducked forward quickly and pressed herself against the wall of the small, three story apartment building. She tested the door with her left hand. It was locked. Dick reached for his two-way radio.

'Back door is secure. We're going in.'

'Negative, Grayson. Hold there for now.'

Dick stepped behind a dumpster for cover, keeping his SIG Sauer 9mm pistol aimed squarely at the door. The pair stood poised; Dick caught his breath, and waited.

The building was old. Probably just barely up to code. The majority of the neighbourhood seemed on the verge of falling down. Mealtide Park was one of those areas. Too many people, not enough police. The suburb had sprawled too quickly for proper infrastructure to keep up with. Boarded up windows and condemned buildings were a common sight.

After an eternity, their two-ways crackled to life.

'Grayson, Flores. Second floor. Apartment two seventeen.'

Dick moved quickly, and nodded once. Cat stepped away from the wall, training her Glock 19 on the door. Dick let go with a solid kick, and the door flew open. He took a deep breath and stepped into the building.

The floorboards creaked with each step. Cat followed close behind him. He found the stairs and headed up. He paused at the top of the landing, and waited for her to catch up. They stood for a second, back to back.

'This way.' She took the lead and headed down the hall. Moving smoothly, she slowed slightly at each door before moving to the next.

'Found it.' She hissed. 'Two seventeen.'

She flattened against the wall and looked to the right, towards the slightly ajar door. He nodded, and pushed through, into the apartment.

Two police detectives stood in the room with a handful of uniformed officers. Three perps, already handcuffed, knelt by the window.

_Late to the party again._

* * *

'Coffee?'

'Yeah, I think I'll need it. Thanks, Dick.'

Dick stepped away from his desk and stretched his arms above his head. He stifled a yawn, and headed to the break room.

While the machine poured steaming, dark liquid into a cup, he mentally recapped the night's work. The tip had been legit, and the bust had handed them three dealers of a new amphetamine compound that had been responsible for over a dozen OD fatalities in the last month. Unfortunately, a fourth man had got away. The three they caught rolled over, and identified the fourth as their ringleader. There was an all-points bulletin out on Franky Santorum, the missing ringleader.

Dick's role, however, had been almost non-existent. As Nightwing, he could have made that bust alone, but his Captain didn't have quite that much faith in him. Yet somehow, he still ended up with a mountain of paperwork. The perks of being the new guy.

'So where was your friend, today?' Dick set one of the mugs next to Cat's mousepad. 'What do you call him? "Batwing"?'

'Oh har har. You're gonna make fun of me for that?' She swivelled in her chair to face him. 'I don't care if nobody else believes me, but "Nightwing" saved my life.'

Dick tried his hardest to put on a skeptical face. But he knew she was right. One of his first nights in Blüdhaven, he'd found Officer Flores in a dark alley, surrounded by goons. He was still new to working alone, so he might have been a bit dramatic. It was the strangest luck that, on making detective, they'd ended up partners.

'I'm not saying I don't believe you, I'm just asking where he is when we're doing actual police work? What, has he got a day job?'

'Maybe he was off saving someone else's bacon. All I know is, I'm glad they're out there. Regardless of whether people believe in them.'

'They?'

'The other ones. The capes from Gotham. My cousin says they've got some over in Star City, too.'

"Capes" was a funny term, and Dick hadn't heard it before. It was much nicer than the regular names they were called. "Outlaw vigilantes", "costumed idiots", "tight wearing freaks". That in mind, he couldn't get too offended that the title wasn't very inclusive. When he was younger he'd worn a cape. As Robin he'd worn flashy capes to distract from his lack of physical size. As he'd got older, he'd tried to use them like Bruce had, casting his shadow over a scared enemy, masking his movements to avoid gunfire, and the like. But once he'd struck out on his own, a cape had never felt right. It restricted his acrobatics, felt heavy on his shoulders, and offered something to grab at in a melee. He'd learned that last one the hard way. Nightwing didn't wear a cape.

'I dunno, you really think there's more than one guy crazy enough to dress up in tights and fly around fighting muggers?'

'I do, Grayson. And I think we're very lucky they're out there.'

* * *

The wind in his hair, and the lights sprawled out beneath him. This is where Dick belonged. He stepped off the edge, and felt the euphoria of free-fall as the city rushed up to meet him. He saw his target and fired a grapple high into a nearby building. The claw lodged into the concrete like a harpoon. He braced himself as the line snapped taut, swinging in a huge arc.

_Flagpole._

As he flew high into the air, a flick of the trigger on his grapple released the line from the wall. The claw snapped quickly back to the launcher. He tumbled through the air, dropping his grappling-gun to his belt. The magnetic clip snapped the device to his belt, and Dick reached forward with both hands. He grabbed at the flagpole protruding from the side of the building and swung himself up, tucking his legs close to his chest as he summersaulted up the building like a bullet. He landed with perfect form, and spun on the spot.

Santorum had been spotted by police in the narrows. Dick's own investigation had narrowed down three possible safe houses he could be running out of. The first two had been a bust, so it had to be this one, right?

He barged through the door to the fire stairs, and vaulted the handrails down the two flights of stairs to the ninth floor. He put his foot through the door to the apartment in question, and drew a shuriken from his belt. The lights were out, and the room was full of shadow. His eyes flicked around, trying to find Santorum.

A screaming siren passed on the street, and for a second the room flashed red and blue. The shadows moved, and he saw a figure crouching in the darkened corner.

_Gun!_

The man brought up a pistol, but Nightwing was quicker. He let fly with the shuriken, it struck the gun sharply and the shot went high.

_Go._

He leapt across the room and delivered a sharp kick to the man's chest. He fell backwards, collapsing into the corner as the gun skittered across the room. Pressing his knee into the man's chest, Nightwing raised a fist.

'Santorum?'

The man nodded groggily. Dick lashed out with a savage jab, knocking Santorum out cold. With the threat neutralised, Dick turned on the lights. The apartment was an orgy of drug dealing paraphernalia.

_Gotcha_.

* * *

Nightwing crouched on the ledge of a building across from Santorum's safe house. He watched through binoculars as the Police stormed up the stairs in force and kicked down the door into the apartment.

'Lucky we don't wait for them to do all the work.' He quipped to himself.

They'd found Santorum now, passed out in the shower recess. The spilled shampoo and cracked tile Dick set up seemed to have been enough. They assumed he'd slipped in the shower, and Dick's anonymous tip-off might well have come from a disgruntled business partner, or customer.

He hadn't needed to set up any other evidence. That was already there, in spades. A do-it-yourself meth lab took up most of the bathroom, and a pill press sat on the kitchen bench next to the toaster. There were briefcases full of money and little bags of white powder strewn around the room. It was as if they weren't even trying to pretend it wasn't a drug den. The most interesting thing Dick had found, in his quick assessment of the scene, was a series of letters implicating Roman Sionis, the incumbent mayor of Gotham and heir to the Sionis corporate empire. It seemed feasible that the head of a Janus Cosmetics, Roman's brainchild, could be involved in narcotics manufacture. They'd have access to all the right equipment. Dick left those letters in the centre of the kitchen table after taking photos for his own files. It wasn't often they got to have a crack at some big-business type.

Perched above the city, Dick felt alone. In that moment, there was nobody else to celebrate the job well done. Nobody to tease him that she could have done it better. Nobody to blow off steam with in a city wide game of tag.

He missed Barbara. In the old days, they'd been inseparable. Batgirl and Robin had worked well together, and they'd had fun doing it. When they were kids, the whole thing had been a game. The criminals had been a workout, and saving the city was all in a day's work. That had changed with the rise of The Joker. When Bruce forbade them from going after the Clown Prince of Crime, everything got serious. They tried, against Bruce's orders, to take him on. That was when the trouble started. Dick resented Bruce for coddling the two of them like kids. Batman argued that they were, and needed his protection. Dick knew he couldn't deal with living in Batman's shadow anymore. So he left. He left the manor, left the city. But Barbara, she stayed. He'd been sure she'd be on his side. After all they'd been through. All they were to one another.

He'd never felt so betrayed.

* * *

'Let it go, Grayson.'

'The evidence is there, sir. Right there!' He slapped his hand on the photo and the whole desk bounced. 'Roman Sionis is in on this. We can take down a man who is killing people! His drugs are causing deaths! And we're meant to ignore it? We're meant to let his guys go?'

Chief Delmore Redhorn stood from his chair, his face redder than a beetroot.

'Grayson, I don't know who you think you are, but I won't be yelled at in my own office!' The small, tubby man seemed to grow 12 inches taller as he growled. 'Gimme your badge and gun. 6 weeks suspension. With pay.'

Dick threw his SIG and brass shield on the desk. He turned to leave, but Redhorn wasn't done.

'Grayson, this is my city. We do things my way. You make any trouble about this, and I'll bury you. Is that understood?'

'Yes, sir.' Dick slammed the door on his way out. He knew it was juvenile, but it still made him feel better. The bullpen continued about their work, seemingly oblivious to the spat that had occurred. He snatched up his wallet and coat, and headed for the door. Flores saw him and gave chase, stopping him by the elevator. His blood was still boiling, but it wasn't her fault. He tried to put on a smile.

'I'm taking some holiday leave. I'll see you in a couple of weeks.'

'You know, partner, you're a horrible liar. He suspend you?'

'Yeah, I don't wanna talk about it. We can grab drinks this weekend, maybe.'

'Sounds good, Grayson. I'll see you later.'

He slipped into the elevator and pulled on his coat. The long, tan trench coat looked like something out of a bad detective movie, but it sure was warm. And in Blüdhaven, even the summer days got chilly as the sun went down. As Dick hit the street, and his coat started to pay off, a teenaged boy approached, waving at him. He turned and walked the other way. Whatever this kid wanted, he wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

'Detective Grayson, I need to talk to you!'

The kid knew who he was. Maybe it was important? He didn't look like trouble.

'Please detective, it's about Nightwing.'

Oh crap.

Dick stopped dead.

'My name is Tim Drake, detective. And I know your secret.'


End file.
